St Patrick's Day
by die Otter
Summary: Sergeant Harper's bad mood aka riflemen fluff.
**A/N Set after _Sharpe's Company_ (movie verse), but there aren't any big spoilers here. Not beta read, all the mistakes and errors are mine and I'd be grateful if you pointed them out to me.**

* * *

 **St. Patrick's Day**

Sergeant Patrick Harper was in a foul mood.

In fact at this moment it would be very hard to find a happy soldier in the South Essex regiment. It was early spring and the thaw together with a week of rain made the life of the infantry a wet cold hell. But when the Irish sergeant, usually calm and optimistic about whatever fate chose to send him, began to yell at his men and curse them for every little thing they did or did not do, the mood in the whole light company became even worse than in other companies.

And that was why rifleman Perkins was trembling uncontrollably as he approached the huge Irishman to tell him that he had lost spare flints for his rifle. He had been expecting an outburst, a sermon, a punishment, but he had never expected this. The sergeant gave him a dark look then without a word he fished some flints from the storage compartment in the butt of his rifle and handed them to the surprised boy.

Ben stammered his thanks and immediately backed behind the tents where he finally let out the breath he hadn't even noticed he had been holding. He felt almost the way soldiers usually felt when the battle was over and they realized they managed to survive yet once again.

"Harps gave you a thrashing?" Cooper laughed at the sight of the boy's pale face.

Perkins shook his head.

"There's something wrong with the sergeant, Francis," he said quietly. He cast a glance over his shoulder as if he was worried Harper could still hear him. "I think he's sick."

"Sick? Does he have fever?" Hagman asked, obviously worried.

"No, I don't think so. He's just so..."

"Mad?" Harris finished for him with a grin. "Nothing new then, eh?"

Ben thought for a moment.

"No, I meant sad. Very, very sad. As if someone died or something..."

Cooper scratched his head.

"Nobody's died recently, right? That is except for Ensign Morgan who drowned in a swamp, but the kid brought it upon himself, didn't he? Who the hell goes picking fowers in the middle of a march?"

"Maybe he did, Francis, but he was just a lad. Not much older than our Ben. Such a pity," Hagman remarked with a bit of sadness.

"But Morgan died over a month ago. Harps has been acting like a rabid dog only for a week or so," observed Rifleman Harris.

"Maybe he's bored? The Captain is in town, here there's just rain and rain, no fun and no Frogs..." wondered Tongue.

"Or maybe he's a little homesick?" offered Cooper. "Remember when it started? When we camped right next to the Connaught Rangers last week. Maybe Harps heard some of his mother tongue and now he misses Ireland?"

Harris brightened up.

"Look, it's St. Patrick's Day today! Why don't we prepare a little surprise for Pat? Ben, go to the second company, their sergeant was in the town today, he'll probably have some liquor for sale."

"And what will we buy it with?" Tongue reminded him. "I have no money."

"It's because you drink too much," joked Cooper as he fished a couple of coins from his pocket. "That's all I've got. Lads?"

When others were adding their meagre savings to the pot, they finally noticed that Hagman was no longer there.

"Doesn't matter, we've got enough for a little party." Harris shrugged as he counted the money and gave it to Perkins. "And Dan will play some merry tune for Pat when he's back. I'm sure the girls will love a dance."

When they thought about the women – the company wives and the local girls who had joined the army either because they had nowhere else to go or because they reckoned they could earn some money among soldiers – the riflemen's faces brightened up.

"I can't remember when was the last time we danced." Cooper grinned. The idea of throwing a party for their Irish sergeant became suddenly a very promising one.

* * *

Meanwhile, Rifleman Hagman, who had decided that talking behind his back would do no good for the sergeant, left his companions and went for a search for his Irish friend. He found Harper in front of his tent, sharpening his bayonet as if his life depended on it. Unlike Perkins, who was still slightly afraid of the big Irishman, the old poacher was not going to be scared off that easily.

"A few strokes more and there'll be nothing left of it." He gestured towards the bayonet, which was already deadly sharp.

Harper shrugged.

"Just as of the poor bastard whom I'll cut with it," he joked half-heartedly.

"What's wrong, Pat?" Hagman wasn't going to beat about the bush.

"Who says there's something wrong?" asked Harper dryly.

"Perkins thinks you're sick." For a moment the old rifleman looked as if he wanted to touch the sergeant's head, but he changed his mind and instead crouched down on the wet ground beside his friend.

"Tell him to check if he's not sick himself," parried Harper angrily.

The only answer he got from Hagman was a long stare, partly questioning, partly challenging him.

"Don't look at me like that, it reminds me of my father," Pat muttered with irritation, but still they both knew he was beginning to yield.

Hagman didn't press, he just waited patiently for Harper to gather his thoughts.

"Remember last week? We shared a bottle of brandy with a few lads from the Connaught Rangers," Patrick began slowly after a moment.

Dan just nodded.

"Only one of the lads wasn't from Connaught. He was from Donegal..."

"Bad news from home?" Daniel guessed.

"Aye, something like that." Harper shrugged and returned to his task of sharpening the bayonet, signalling to his friend the talk was over. He was a soldier and an Irishman, not a woman after all. He wasn't going to whine like one.

Hagman waited for a while to make sure the sergeant won't say anything more, then he spoke softly:

"Remember what the recruiting sergeants used to tell us? The army will be your second home, lads. The sergeant will be your second father."

Even though he knew what the old poacher was trying to tell him, Pat couldn't hold back a curt laugh.

"Who is fathering whom now, huh?"

Hagman ignored him.

"It's St. Patrick's today, isn't it?" the old poacher continued. "Shouldn't you be celebrating? It's a sin not to honour a saint."

"Don't pretend to know something about the Irish tradition," Pat snorted, but he smiled at the same time.

"I know something about the Irish brandy," replied Hagman with a laugh. He produced a half-full bottle from his pocket and handed it to his friend. Then he stood up and started whistling a tune which, to his surprise, Harper recognized to be _The Wearing of the Green_.

"Now we're all wearing the green, eh?" the Irishman joked pointing to the riflemen's uniforms, so different from the regular British red. He was about to open the bottle, but Hagman stopped him.

"Wait for the rest of the family. They're bound to appear soon," he smiled. "And meanwhile, seeing that you're so good at it, maybe you'd sharpen mine as well?"

Harper laughed and shook his head, making raindrops spray into the air.

"Sure, I just hope it won't ruin my reputation," he said jokingly.

"After the show you've been giving us for the last week? Don't think so."

* * *

When the sun set, it had already stopped raining and even the air seemed slightly less cold than before. The cheerful music coming from the light company's tents soon attracted both men and women form the neighbouring companies, and although the wet ground was a bit slippery, most of them were too eager to dance to notice such details. When you were in the army, an occasion for a dance was a rather rare occurrence.

It had proved fairly easy to get alcohol and even though they had had to share some with the lieutenant to convince the man to let them organize a party, the riflemen still had enough liquor left. When other soldiers had heard about it, they had begun to produce their own secret reserves, so now the whole company was in an excellent mood.

Most of the South Essex officers, irritated by the weather, chose to take quarters in the nearby town, where the houses weren't perhaps as clean as their tents, but at least they were dry. The ones left in the camp were mostly lieutenants and ensigns left to keep the soldiers in order, and because they knew the regiment wasn't marching on the following day, they decided to ignore the party originated by the light company. A few of these gentlemen even chose to join in the dancing.

"What are we actually celebrating?" A tall grenadier in an unbuttoned jacket sat down next to Harris, Tongue and Perkins. Whether he knew it was them who started the fun or whether he was attracted by the pretty girl in the youngest rifleman's lap, it was hard to say.

"St. Patrick's Day," explained Harris.

"Ah," answered the grenadier without the slightest surprise. Probably if he was told they were having a memorial service to King Arthur, he would react in an exactly the same manner. As long as there was rum, music and good company, soldiers didn't care what they were celebrating.

"Isn't he too young for you, love?" he asked the girl accompanying Perkins. "Maybe you'd prefer someone who actually shaves?"

Rifleman Perkins was about fifteen, his companion could be twenty or more, she was also much taller than he, so together they made a rather comical duo. However, when the grenadier reached for the girl, the riflemen reached for bayonets. The grenadier smiled sourly, but he gave up. Everybody knew that the riflemen were one of the best soldiers in the regiment and the Baker rifle was much more accurate than a musket. The grenadier wasn't afraid of a fight, especially that a few of his friends were dancing or drinking nearby. However, he knew that a fight at the beginning of a party could ruin the fun for everyone, and then, after a week or two, a battle would come and some lost rifle bullet could find its way to the poor grenadier's heart. And nobody would blame the riflemen, accidents like that happened all the time. The grenadier decided the girl wasn't worth the risk.

"Who the hell was that Saint Patrick?" asked Perkins after the three riflemen and the girl were left alone.

"An Irish saint," Tongue explained.

"Saint Patrick converted the pagan Ireland to Christianity," Harris joined in. The redhead would never miss an opportunity to show off his education. "They say he was kidnapped by the Irish when he was young, turned into a slave there and..." he stopped, noticing that nobody was listening to him. He shrugged, searched for his dancing partner and found her dancing with a Scottish sergeant who had somehow found his way to their party. Harris shrugged again and reached for Tongue to lead him into the dancing circle. In the army there always had been more men than women and soldiers had long ago learned to do without the latter.

* * *

The light company's musicians – rifleman Hagman on fiddle and sergeant Harper on flute – went silent for a moment to take a sip of whiskey and to decide what they were going to play next. Up to this moment they had managed to keep the music mostly Irish, but although Dan was renowned for being able to play about anything, his experience was mostly limited to the English tunes. He was quick at catching up other songs, Irish, Scottish or Spanish, but he couldn't keep up with a proper Irishman.

"Let's play that one we started with," offered Harper, scratching his head. "The lads are so drank they won't notice anyway."

"Weren't you supposed to get drunk tonight as well?" Hagman reminded him half jokingly.

"I am getting drunk, so I am. Don't you see?" Pat pointed to the bottle in his lap, pretending he didn't understand what his friend was trying to tell him.

"Pat..." The old poacher wasn't so easy to discourage. "This party was meant for you, you know? The lads were worried about you. So do it for them and at least try to have some fun."

"And who's going to play then?"

"And who usually does when you're dancing?" Hagman raised an eyebrow, reminding the sergeant that as far as music was concerned, it was Pat who played second fiddle. "See that lass over there? The one with the dark curls? She's looking at you."

Harper raised his head and followed his friend's gaze. The girl Dan had pointed to was pretty indeed. She stood to the side, accompanied by a young ensign, who was apparently telling her some joke. She looked as if she was here alone and definitely she wasn't a whore. She seemed a little lost. As Pat was staring at her, their eyes met for a second and the Irishman instantly made a decision.

"Play anything, just play it from the heart," he muttered at his companion without even looking at him. He put his flute into his pocket, straightened his jacket and ran his hand through his hair, then marched towards his prey.

"Sergeant Patrick Harper," he introduced himself. "May I, Sir?" Following the rules, he asked the ensign for permission and the young man, who couldn't dance anyway because of a wound in his leg, didn't protest.

"Won't you ask me?" the girl challenged him jokingly and with a heavy Spanish accent.

"I don't need to, I've already read it in your heart, señorita." Pat grinned at her.

"Oh really? Maybe you can also read my name there?" She winked.

Harper hesitated for a moment, then he discovered with surprise that the ensign, still standing behind her, was mouthing the word for him.

"Ramona. Your name is Ramona."

"And my last name?" She insisted on teasing him.

"Your last name doesn't matter," declared Harper with a confidence. "'Cause soon it will be 'Harper'".

Ramona burst out laughing. She didn't protest anymore as he led her into the dancing circle.

* * *

"She's pretty enough. And he's lost."

Hagman jumped up, surprised, when he heard Captain Sharpe's voice just over him. Seeing that the officer wasn't angry though, he relaxed back and smiled at the man.

"So it seems, Sir."

"Good. I've been telling him for weeks that he needs a good woman." The captain stepped over the bench and sat down next to the rifleman.

"Like Miss Teresa, Sir?"

Sharpe smiled and his eyes brightened at the thought of his wife.

"No, Dan. There's no other like her."

"No, Sir. But a man can still dream, eh?" Hagman answered him and both men laughed.

"Here." Sharpe produced a bottle of whiskey from his pocket. "It was supposed be for Pat because of St. Patrick's Day, but I don't think he'll need anything more to lighten his spirits."

They took a sip each and then, seeing that Daniel reached for his bow, Sharpe said with a mock reproach:

"Can't you play a proper English tune for a change?"

"Can't, Sir. Not today." Hagman grinned at him. "It's St. Patrick's, you see?"

THE END

* * *

*The wearing of the green is an Irish street ballad related to the Irish revolution of 1789. You can find it on You Tube.

 _Oh, Paddy dear, and did you hear_

 _The news that's going round?_

 _The shamrock is by law forbid_

 _To grow on Irish ground._

 _Saint Patrick's Day no more we'll keep_

 _His colour can't be seen_

 _For they're hanging men and women for_

 _The wearing of the green._


End file.
